


One Yard Below

by HeayPuckett



Series: The Dating Life of Sherlock Holmes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Dramedy, F/M, Friendship, I'm really bad at tagging, Plot Twist, Romance, Sherlolly - Freeform, baby pirates, but it ain't Sherlock wearing it, guest appearance by the purple shirt of sex, post-HLV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-18 20:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1441561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeayPuckett/pseuds/HeayPuckett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock Holmes boarded the private jet bound for Eastern Europe, he thought he would never set eyes on England again, but England is capricious and there's a new madman threatening her security. Just to make things more interesting, Molly Hooper has gone missing. Sherlock is beginning to understand exactly what Mycroft meant when he insisted that caring was not an advantage. </p><p>**Title may change. Suggestions welcome.**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stormweaver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormweaver/gifts).



> This is based on an idea I developed in a previous fic. Yes, I plagiarized myself. How's that for lazy? This is an attempt at writing a more serious fic. Note that I use the word "attempt." I can't stop making jokes to save my life. 
> 
> As always, buckets of kudos to my beta reader, Stormweaver, who has patience to spare. Not only did she provide her usual awesome editing skills (any residual typos are on me for forgetting to correct them), but she also convinced me to run with this idea.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is Moriarty dead or is he alive? Molly Hooper knows. She should. She did cut his heart out after all...

* * *

 “What is the problem, Mycroft?” Sherlock Holmes couldn’t keep the irritability from his voice when speaking to his elder brother, nor did he particularly try.

“I’ve ordered the plane to return to the airstrip. There’s been an incident. England needs you,” Mycroft Holmes replied succinctly.

“Then ‘England’ should stop being so capricious and make up her mind. What’s happened?”

“Do be patient a moment and allow me speak to the flight attendant again,” The elder Holmes brother ordered in a tone that illustrated perfectly why a man in only his mid-forties was made director of MI6.

Sherlock handed the phone over to the bland young man hovering at his elbow. The flight attendant listened for several seconds before activating the large screen attached to the galley wall. With Jim Moriarty’s voice oozing from the speakers, Sherlock needed no further explanation.

Mycroft rung off as he exited his vehicle and joined the worried looking Watson’s by the second sedan. Dr. Watson straightened his spine in a fashion that blatantly broadcast his military background. Waiting for orders, as usual. “Mrs. Mary Watson” (Mycroft would always mentally add quotation marks, given what he knew) had one hand on her large belly and one hand hovering near where a gun had been secreted only an hour before. She was a study in contrasts: one part concerned wife and mother,  one part hyper-vigilant former agent. With this new development, Mycroft was regretting the order to have the couple disarmed before being brought to the tarmac.

“Wait for Sherlock. The driver will take you directly to Baker Street. Inform him I will be along shortly. Make him stay there.”

Dr. Watson opened his mouth (to protest, Mycroft assumed), but was ignored as the gentleman returned to his own car and pulled out his mobile. Dialing a number he had memorized long ago, Mycroft waited with increasing impatience as the line rang and rang… and then went dead.

“Duncan,” Mycroft said smoothly to his driver, “St. Bartholomew’s hospital, pathology building, as quickly as possible.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

_"Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?"_

With shaking hands, Molly Hooper quickly cleaned up glass fragments from the beaker she dropped. Thankfully, it had been empty, or she would have a much bigger mess to clean up. She giggled as she threw away the shards. Oh, there was a bigger mess to clean up, all right, just not one of her making. The giggling veered uncomfortably close to hysterical. Molly grit her teeth and forced herself to calm down and think.

Her first instinct was to call Sherlock, but she hesitated. She had neither seen nor spoken to him since just before he left to celebrate the holidays with his family. It was silly, Molly knew, feeling awkward when a national incident was unfolding around her, but she couldn’t help it. In the end, she decided her best course of action would be to get herself among people and away from the most isolated portion of the building. Surrounded by people, away from the empty lab preying on her active imagination, she could regroup and decide what to do. Decision made, she spun on her heel and started for the door. She barely got two feet away from her previous position when the lights went out.

Molly immediately froze, her heartbeat speeding up dramatically. She felt her nervous system kick into protective mode and began mentally reciting each physiological change. It was a trick she learned from her dad long ago. Reduce your reaction to its scientific terms and the physical effects would begin to disappear.

It didn’t take long to calm herself, it never did, and Molly once again took stock of her situation. She waited, unconsciously holding her breath, for the emergency lights to kick in as would be expected for a normal power outage. The pathology department was in one of the older buildings in the complex. It wasn’t unusual for the lights to flicker. The emergency system was the same used in the more modern areas of the hospital. It should activate at any moment.

It didn’t activate.

That didn’t mean anything, really. Just because someone managed to play a video of Jim Moriarty on the television screen in her lab, and then the lights went out (and were staying out) did not mean that Jim Moriarty had risen from the dead to start a zombie apocalypse.

Molly gave herself a mental pep talk, convincing her very active imagination that Zombie Jim was not, in fact, waiting for her around the corner. She also quietly reminded herself that she knew this room better than she knew her own flat. She could make it to the door (fifteen feet forward, seven feet to the left) and out into the corridor, beyond which lay another passageway leading to the ambulance bay and light. Loads and loads of lovely, bright zombie- destroying light. No, wait. Light destroyed vampires. One had to blow the head off of a zombie. It was a fearful time indeed when Molly Hooper couldn’t keep her zombie survival skills separate from her other general undead knowledge.

Molly slowly began moving towards the door, creating a mental map of the lab that she followed in spite of the oppressive darkness. Three feet forward and she should be in front of the sample analysis equipment. She reached out and her hand found the smooth edge of the monitor. With that success to push her along, Molly continued her trek to the doors, pausing once to consider going back to the dissection station on the right side of the room. She had just turned on the recording equipment in preparation for the dissection she had been about to perform on poor Humphries’ liver. The digital recorder was battery operated for portability, but the batteries were expensive. She hated leaving things running when she wasn’t going to be in the lab, but she decided, just this once, it was justifiable, so she soldiered on.

Just past the samples station, she stubbed her toe on a stool and squeaked out a mild curse. She was too busy leaning on the stool and shaking her foot to notice the old public address system speaker hiss and crackle to life until she heard a tinny voice echoing in the room.

 _"Why Molly Hooper! I've never known you to use such language."_ The old  intercom system that connected all of the teaching areas was two way and one of the dinosaurs that admin refused to remove.

Molly looked up towards where she knew the speaker to be, "Who's there?"

 _"Come on, honey. You know who this is,"_ purred a sickeningly familiar voice. One she had not heard in two years and now had heard twice in as many minutes. _“Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you.”_

"I don't know who you are, but I know who you aren't: Jim Moriarty," Molly said with a confidence she didn't feel. "He's dead."

_"Tsk, tsk. Such certainty from someone with so much experience in faking death! You of all people should know how easy it is to exchange a body for a body. Let's list them, shall we? Sherlock, of course, then there's The Woman... you do know about her, by now, surely? Then there's me..."_

“Oh? And who are you?”

 _“You know who I am,”_ the voice said flirtatiously.

“I don’t know who you are or why you want to frighten me. What I do know, is that Jim Moriarty is dead.”

_“Autopsy reports can be faked, darling, you would know that better than anyone.”_

“Paperwork can be faked, but holding a heart you’ve just cut out of a man’s chest is a pretty convincing indicator of death,” Molly said with little emotion. There was a pause. “Oh, didn’t know that I performed the autopsy did you? I did the autopsy and my superior signed off on the paperwork.”

_“Well, seeing as how it wasn’t me you were cutting up….”_

“Of course not. It was James Moriarty on my table.”

_“Hmm. Stubborn aren’t you? Of course, that little bit of backbone is what made you interesting. Dating you to get to Sherlock wasn’t the chore I thought it would be… Well, except for that time you forced me to watch Glee…”_

“Which is a fact anyone could have found by reading my silly attempt at a blog.”

Molly struggled to keep her voice even and clear, treating the conversation the way she would an autopsy or dissection. It was this connection that reminded the woman of the digital recorder across the room recording the disturbing conversation. She had been engaging the disembodied voice in order to mask her slow progress to the doors, but now Molly saw an opportunity to trip up the imposter. Plus, if Molly was wrong and things ended up badly for her, there would be a record for Sherlock. She was pretty sure her death under the current circumstances would rate at least a seven.

Molly couldn’t help the wry grin that twitched at her mouth. How many years had she fantasized about being the focus of Sherlock’s attention? It would be just her luck that when it finally happened it would be because Molly had managed to get herself murdered. A tiny part of her hoped that the voice really was Jim. If she was going to provide a real challenge to Sherlock’s deductive skills, then her death needed to be above seven. Being the victim of an undead master criminal might just push her case over the line into an eight.

 _“Toby got your tongue, Miss Molly?”_ The voice sounded annoyed and the static from the old speaker hissed louder. The more the voice spoke, the less it sounded like Jim Moriarty. _“I don’t really liked being ignored, sweetie. Would it be easier if we spoke face to face? Oh, that’s brilliant! Hold on a sec, Molly, I’ll be right there.”_

Molly jumped slightly and momentarily froze in place. All of the old intercom units were wired to broadcast to and from any room. Whoever it was could be anywhere in the building, even next door. Molly made a split second decision and made a blind dash for the door. She felt a thrill as her outstretched hands connected with the cool wood and she pushed through.

Once in the corridor, she knew she could flat out run, it was a narrow passage with double doors at the end-

Molly swallowed a scream when she suddenly plowed into another person, sending them both flying to the floor. She immediately began kicking out and rolled away, ready to scratch, punch and claw her way past whoever it was trying to frighten her. Hand drawn back with fingers closed, ready to gouge, Molly was stopped by the sudden return of the lights. She let out her breath with a relieved squeak.

Sprawled on the floor next to her was a very familiar person with very familiar curly hair and wearing a very familiar wool coat. Molly felt the tension drain out of her as she sighed in relief.

“Tom.”

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been three days since Molly's disappearance and Sherlock is grasping at straws.

* * *

 

“So, there’s nothing on the CCTV?” John Watson asked incredulously. “Are we thinking Moriarty-”

 

“Fake Moriarty,” Sherlock corrected sharply, not bothering to look up from the screen replaying the video feeds in question. They were holed up in Baker Street as Sherlock watched the surveillance tapes from St. Bart’s for what had to be the fiftieth time. John was glad Sherlock had decided to conduct this part of the investigation from 221B instead of the security offices. It wasn’t any more relaxed, but it was less daunting being away from the site of Molly Hooper’s apparent abduction three days ago.

 

“Fake Moriarty, then,” John said, “Are we thinking he got control of the CCTV system as well or that he’s got Molly hidden in the pathology building at Bart’s?”

 

“She’s not in the building,” Lestrade insisted, “My people went over every inch, four times already. I’m not just talking about the original unit. I had over a hundred officers volunteer to make multiple sweeps into every vent, sub-basement and crawlspace in that place.”

 

“That leaves Fake Moriarty,” John started, glancing at Sherlock, “He must have gotten control of the CCTV system like he did the broadcast networks.”

 

“No,” Sherlock put in, “The camera angles never changed and the feeds haven’t been altered.”

 

“Well, she didn’t just disappear in a blue police box! What the hell happened?” Lestrade threw his hands up in frustration. Like John and Sherlock, the Detective Inspector showed signs of fatigue and stress in his red-rimmed eyes and tense muscles.

 

“Blind spots.”

 

“Blind spots?” John prompted.

 

“There are always blind spots with surveillance cameras. No matter how you arrange the angles or distribute the recording units, there are inevitably small areas that are not in camera range. Generally, the blind spots are so small as to be insignificant, but careless placement of the cameras can create several feet of dead space.”

 

John and Greg winced at his poor choice of words, but did not interrupt. Sherlock continued.

 

“There are seven blind spots around the pathology building. Anyone paying proper attention could have left that building and made it all the way to Giltspur Street before being picked up on camera again.” He didn’t elaborate but it was those blind spots that had allowed Sherlock to leave St. Bart’s unseen on the day of his “death.” If a car was waiting, then Molly could have easily been spirited away without once being on camera.

 

Sherlock turned away from the monitor. There were no more clues to be found on that video feed. Likewise on the recording Mycroft had retrieved from the lab when he discovered Molly was missing. Sherlock felt proud of Molly for having not only managed to leave such a clue, but also to keep the imposter talking and leading him into verbal traps proving he was not Jim Moriarty.  Sherlock had listened to that digital file on a loop until he could quote it verbatim.

 

In the end, it was what was missing on the recording that had proven most interesting. Had Molly been forcibly taken from the lab, there would have been signs of a struggle, one loud enough to have been picked up on the recording. The digital player continued recording for an hour after the last sound made by Molly: her escape through the lab entrance. There was no sign of struggle outside of the lab and no sounds of distress on the mp3.

 

There were two other possible explanations for Molly’s disappearance. Either she knew the person who kidnapped her and had left with him willingly or she was hiding on her own. The former narrowed down the list of potential kidnappers considerably. The latter would mean Molly had chosen not to contact anyone for help, an odd choice considering the fact that she counted among her friends a NYS Detective Inspector and the head of MI6… and him. She had him.

 

Molly Hooper was a clever resourceful person and Sherlock had no doubt that she was capable of hiding herself for as long as she liked. Molly knew about those blind spots, as did most of his homeless network.  Speaking of which, Sherlock thought as he pulled his phone from his pocket. It chirped a second time, registering the second of two text messages from members of his homeless network.

 

Immediately after having been told by Mycroft of Molly’s apparent disappearance, Sherlock had sent the word out to his network for information. Sherlock knew Mycroft and Molly had become friends during his absence (a fact he found annoying), but he did not trust his brother to be fully forthcoming with information about the incident. Mycroft was always more interested in the bigger picture. Sherlock simply wanted Molly back.

 

Reading the texts, Sherlock jumped to his feet and grabbed his coat.

 

“I need to meet someone,” was the only explanation he gave as to where he was going. “John, I need you to call your contact in military intelligence. I may need some information.”

 

“Sure, but wouldn’t it be quicker to get it from your brother?”

 

“I don’t trust him to give me all of the information I need. I can’t,” Sherlock paused, roughly pulling his scarf on as his jaw worked. He couldn’t risk Molly, was what he was thinking, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to say it aloud. John gave him a gentle look that made Sherlock glance away uncomfortably. “Mycroft is keeping something from me. I don’t know what, but I need to be absolutely certain of this information.”

 

“Right,” John said with a sharp nod, “I’ll get in touch with Ned. You text me as soon as you’ve got a name, yeah?”

 

Sherlock nodded and turned to Lestrade. “I need a copy of that boot print you found in Molly’s flat.”

 

“On it,” Lestrade, taking out his own phone, “and you’ll let me know if I need to have the airport locked down or stake out any tube stations…” his voice trailed off as he watched the door swing shut after the detective.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“You are certain that this is who was seen with Molly Hooper that evening? Absolutely certain?”

 

“Yeah, ‘course. What you pay me for, innit?”

 

A grubby hand scratched at a sallow cheek as Sherlock studied the man. With a nod, the taller (and cleaner) man left his informant in the alley and made his way back out to the main street. He had just received two valuable pieces of information from two of his most reliable informants: Sebastian Moran, a high ranking (and elusive) lieutenant in Moriarty’s organization,  was back in London and Tom West had been seen leaving St. Bart’s Hospital with Molly Hooper. That was the last time she was seen.

 

It had taken two and a half more weeks for his network to produce any useful information. In that time, Lestrade’s idiots had discovered a whole host of “clues” that hinted at Molly having been killed within hours of her abduction. Finding her lab coat, blue jumper and favourite brown trousers half burned in a fire set at a condemned house had been provocative, yes, but hardly conclusive proof.  The traces of blood were unsettling, of course, but the shards of glass he found in the lab could fully explain where that blood originated. Witness accounts of hearing a woman’s scream, hearing gunshots, seeing a shadowy figure dump something into the Thames -- all nonsense. He would not accept Molly Hooper’s death until he identified the corpse himself.

 

In Sherlock’s two years away from London, he had torn apart Moriarty’s organization at the seams. He concentrated on the common foot soldiers, rather  than on anyone he perceived to be capable of picking up the threads of the scattered web and re-establishing the criminal network. The goal had been chaos. He had largely succeeded and was confident that it would take far more effort and far more power than any of Moriarty’s remaining lieutenants possessed to rebuild.

 

That’s not to say he thought it impossible. Over the course of his investigations Sherlock had discovered that Moriarty had special recruits, people he thought showed particular talent for crime. These few were being groomed for the possibility of taking over the empire in the eventuality of his death. Of course, Moriarty wouldn’t just name an heir and pass power on so smoothly. No, he wanted his lieutenants to prove themselves worthy of the title Master Criminal. He expected them to battle to the death for the right. One of these special proteges was disgraced army officer, Sebastian Moran.

 

Sherlock quickly texted Moran’s name to John in the hopes that the doctor’s military intelligence contact could provide a more thorough dossier on the disgraced former Army lieutenant. He hailed a cab and set out for the flat of Molly’s ex-fiance, Tom. An hour later, he decided he could have saved himself the trouble. Tom, of course, had been questioned by the police as was procedure in such situations. There had been nothing to cause a red flag, even with Sherlock, in the man’s responses, but that simply meant he was an exceptional actor. After breaking into Tom’s flat and scouring it thoroughly, he could find nothing suspicious other the timing of his current business trip.

 

Sherlock received a text from Lestrade shortly after providing the information that Tom West had never made it to his destination. His flight had been booked weeks in advance and someone with Tom’s paperwork had actually used that ticket, but no one checked into the hotel nor had anyone shown up at any of the scheduled conferences. Either Tom was also a victim (a convenient scapegoat for Molly’s disappearance) or he was surprisingly sloppy for a Moriarty minion. Of course the second possibility could have led to the first possibility. Whoever it was trying to step into Moriarty’s shoes would be an idiot not to begin cutting away the dead wood in the remains of the organization.

 

Sherlock was about to leave when he noticed a small photo album on the bookcase. He picked it up and began flipping through it, pausing briefly on a photo of Molly and Tom dressed in sloppy clothes and standing on a beach somewhere. Torquay, to be exact. Molly liked visiting the seaside. It reminded her of summers spent with her grandparents helping them with their charter business. She had invited him to go sailing with her there once. He had decided to stay in London to study the properties of mentholated tobacco.

 

Sherlock mentally shook himself and flipped past the photograph, glancing through bland images of a bland life. He was about to toss the album back onto the shelf when he flipped to a photograph that made him stop and stare unbelieving at the image. He ripped the photo out of the album and ran from the flat.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....la,la,la...what?


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being the most clever man in the room doesn't necessarily mean you're on the right side of the gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun-dun-DUUUUNNNNN!

* * *

 

Molly Hooper had been missing for three weeks bringing the total number of days since Sherlock had seen her in person to sixty-four. Technically sixty-four days, thirteen hours, forty-seven minutes and seconds that continued to accumulate as he looked down the barrel of Sebastian Moran's gun.

The case had been intriguing, exciting, challenging… all of the things that made the work so important to Sherlock. He found, however, that there had been no real joy in discovering clues, exposing red herrings and ultimately running the villain to ground. This case was different. This time it was Molly. For once, it was Sherlock who had been more concerned about saving the life, not solving the case.

"You are much more clever than you seem, but really, dating Molly to get to me? That’s been done. A bit cliche, don’t you think, Moran?" Sherlock lifted his chin and tilted his head a little, "Or would you prefer that I continue to call you Tom?"

Sherlock had been pursuing Sebastian Moran and Tom West on the assumption that they had collaborated to kidnap Molly, not making the correct deduction until it was almost too late. It had taken him almost all of the past three weeks for Sherlock to finally come to the conclusion that the two threads he was chasing met in the middle. One photograph, an of young Sebastian with his elder brother, left in a small photo album in Tom West's flat ultimately proved to be the case-breaking clue.

"Either will do," Sebastian Moran, formerly known as Tom West, said pleasantly, "It has been a while since anyone used my real name, so perhaps you should call me Sebastian. It would be nice to hear after all this time. The last person to call me that was my brother, actually...just before he disappeared in your brother’s custody."

“Ah yes, Lord Augustus Moran, second coming of Guy Fawkes. Did you really call him Auggie?”

“Yeah, he hated it.”

“So this is revenge for your brother being arrested for his frankly pathetically predictable attempt to destroy Parliament? Really, if that’s the level of intelligence that runs in your family, you should just shoot yourself now.”

Sebastian/Tom just smiled, holding the gun with the ease of long practice. Sherlock had no doubt as to the man’s accuracy. Some of the kills attributed to Moran took extraordinary talent. His rather specific skillset coupled with the guileless expression on such a youthful face made the man practically perfect for such work.

"So, it's down to you and it's down to me," Sebastian said with a fake scowl. Then he snorted, "Sorry. I've always wanted to say that."

Sherlock’s expression did not change, but he actually understood that reference. Molly had made him sit through that movie once when he was hiding out at her flat. He had tried to demure -bolt holes were for regrouping, not slumber parties- but she had coyly mentioned a pirate and, well, it wasn’t a bad movie. Molly’s subtle influence on him was something he always viewed as slightly dangerous. One day he was making derisive remarks about her choice of boyfriends, the next she had him watching sentimental cinema and grooming her cat.

“Let’s just get on with it, shall we?” Sherlock said with an air of boredom. “I’ve successfully played your little game -which, it has to be said, was a bit of a disappointment; strong start, weak finish- and I’ve found you. Now, tell me where you have hidden Molly Hooper.”

“Well,” Sebastian said, in that same flippant manner that Jim Moriarty had used. Sherlock’s skin crawled. “You’re no fun. Jim lied about that part.” He tilted his head and asked, “What makes you think Molly is still alive?”

That was a very pointed question indeed. If one were to ask John and Mary Watson or Greg Lestrade, the answer might be that they didn’t. The evidence that they found two days after Molly’s disappearance certainly suggested a fatal encounter.

“If Molly isn’t alive then I will simply kill you and this will all be for nothing,” Sherlock said coldly. He meant it, too. If Moran had hurt Molly Hooper, Sherlock would kill the man, slowly and creatively. He had figured out five ways to do it once he walked into the abandoned cottage in the English countryside. Its remote location opened up the possibility for a great deal of creativity indeed.

“So, isn't this the part where you point out all the clues that led you to me?" Sebastian mocked as he looked at his watch.

"Yes," Sherlock admitted, "but you seem to have a schedule. I wouldn't want to put you off it."

"Oh, no, please,” Sebastian said with a little wave of his firearm,  “It would be a pity to have come this far and not have the full Sherlock Holmes Experience. Please. I insist."

All right then. Sherlock could play this game very well. This was familiar territory. "I will admit to purposefully not deducing you when we met,” he admitted.

Sebastian smirked and interjected, “Sentiment.”

“Just so,” Sherlock didn’t allow his annoyance to bleed into his voice, “but I couldn’t help myself later. Instinct, you see. I hardly realize I’m doing it sometimes.” Sherlock smiled briefly and continued. “You had fun with that whole ‘meat dagger’ thing, didn’t you?”

“Made Molly angry though. She stabbed me with a fork.”

Sympathizing not one bit with the sniper, Sherlock proceeded to detail all of the clues he gathered, however gradually, over the few points of contact he had with Molly’s former fiance. He drew a mental picture of a thin trail of mistakes that all, eventually, led to the revelation that Tom West and Sebastian Moran -a slightly silly young banker and Moriarty’s deadliest sniper- were one in the same.

“You really are very good,” Moran admitted, “what else have you deduced?”

Sherlock paused and studied Moran briefly, squinting as he made yet another connection. “You left that photograph on purpose,” he stated.

“Got that finally, did you?”

It was the only piece of evidence that connected Tom West and Sebastian Moran. The man standing before him would not have made such an idiotic mistake. Tom West left a very definite, very obvious trail. Sebastian Moran, with the exception of the boot print in Molly’s flat, had not. West and Moran were the same person. Why would Moran want Sherlock to find him?

"You really are as smart as I was hoping. Right on all counts," Sebastian gave him a nod and then threw Sherlock completely off his game by lowering the gun to holster it. He held his arms out, almost in invitation. "What else can you deduce, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock had known from the first that Molly had been taken as a distraction, but this was different. Moran had purposely left enough clues to lead Sherlock right to him. The detective squinted, shaking his head slightly. He was still missing something. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and taking in everything: clothes, boots, hair, trace evidence on fingers, clothes and... oh. Sidearm. Standard military issue, as expected of a former army sniper, but the silencer was not standard issue outside security services. Details of Sebastian's history came to him, little things that he discounted before. The detective finally saw it and, though he didn't show it externally, mentally he was slapping himself harder than Molly ever had.

"You're with MI6."

Sebastian Moran grinned, “Mycroft Holmes recruited me three years before Moriarty came calling.”

"Molly’s kidnapping wasn’t orchestrated by Moriarty’s imposter. You did this on your own. You took her right out from underneath his nose.” Sherlock said, all of the pieces finally and fully falling into place. “This new player just took advantage of Molly’s disappearance to taunt me. You hid Molly to protect her. “

"Yes, but not just from whoever this guy is. Mycroft wanted to use her as bait."

Sherlock remained silent for three very tense heartbeats. “Mycroft?” he asked with deadly calm.

“His second phone call when all of this started was to Bart’s. His plan was to pick up Molly personally and convince her to act as bait.”

“Molly knew you were with MI6?” Sherlock asked, “Your engagement…?”

“Was fake,” Moran confirmed smugly, “which is not to say that pretending to be engaged wasn’t quite enjoyable.”

Sherlock’s face twitched with the force of all of the conflicting emotions that ignited all at once. Relief, betrayal, annoyance, pride and other things he wasn’t prepared to analyze at the moment. Molly Hooper was a contradiction rarely reconciled, but he would have to contemplate that later.

Moran smirked, but sobered immediately at the burning look in Sherlock’s eyes. “When Mycroft couldn’t get through, he called me. I managed to get her out just ahead of whoever that was on the p.a. system.”

“But then you went off the grid. You hid Molly from Mycroft as well.”

“Yes and I’m not apologizing for that,” Moran said with a scowl, “Your brother’s a bloody genius when it comes to cloak and dagger games, but he’s perfectly capable of sacrificing people to the greater good. I couldn’t risk Molly getting caught up in that. We both know she would have said yes.”

“Of course she would have,” Sherlock said, annoyed that Moran knew Molly that well, “Molly is a brave and loyal woman. She never says no if she thinks she can help and she always thinks she can help.”

“Even if it could get her killed.”

Sherlock didn’t respond to that comment. Instead he said, “When did you tell Molly that you’re with MI6? Or did she figure it out on her own? She's much too perceptive for you to have fooled her for long."

The other man chuckled. “She wouldn’t give me the time of day until Mycroft told her what was going on.” Moran’s smile didn’t dim, but it twisted into something bitter. “She only agreed to the ruse of being engaged to me because she thought it would protect you. She didn’t know my real name, though, until I convinced her to go into hiding. She actually-”  

“You’re in love with her,” Sherlock interrupted. He was almost as shocked as Moran at suddenness of the statement.

Moran’s expression became inscrutable, “How would _you_ know?”

“This wasn’t just about protecting Molly. You wouldn’t have left so many clues if that were the case. You were testing me,” Sherlock said with a hint of surprise. Moran didn’t respond. “Why?” he asked finally.

Silence fell for several long moments and then Moran pulled a flash drive from his pocket and tossed it to Sherlock.

“I’m sorry to have distracted you from the real culprit, but I had to be sure. This isn’t over, not by a long shot.” He nodded to the flash drive. "That's everything I know and anything remotely related. Your brother already has all of it, but considering he was planning on having Molly stand as bait, I figured you might not get to see most of it otherwise. I don't know who it is, just that he -or she, I can't be sure- has made overtures for a partnership."

“We can discuss it once I see Molly,” Sherlock started. Moran shook his head.

“No. This is why Mycroft set me up to be recruited by Moriarty ten years ago. That is where I'll be most effective. I can't protect Molly now." He speared Sherlock with a look which the detective returned fiercely.

“Fine,” Sherlock said with no little amount of frustration, “take me to Molly and you can run along.”

Sherlock ignored the younger man’s smirk as he followed him through  the rabbit warren of rooms in the abandoned cottage. They stepped through a narrow door into a small room furnished with only a bed and a side table. Molly Hooper lay curled up in the middle of the bed sleeping peacefully.

Sebastian approached the bed and leaned over and gently stroked Molly's hair out of her face. Sherlock watched him with eagle eyes, a cold rage building in his gut, but he stayed back.

"Molly," Sebastian called softly.

"Mmm...Sebastian?" Molly turned her head before opening her eyes, "Hi. Is everything over? Can I go home now?"

"No," he said with a sympathetic smile and straightened up, "But I've arranged for someone to take you back to civilization." Moran nodded in Sherlock's direction. Molly’s eyes quickly found Sherlock and he was completely unprepared for the force of her gaze. Molly Hooper had never been good at hiding her emotions, just masking the reasons for those emotions. At that moment, she exuded a relief so palpable that it almost overshadowed the every other thing that filled her eyes upon seeing Sherlock.

She jumped from the bed and ran to Sherlock. For a second he thought she might plow right into him. Vague disappointed filled him when Molly skidded to a stop a foot away. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock noted Moran leaving the room.

“Oh, Sherlock!” she breathed, “You’re okay! Are you okay?” Molly’s face creased with concern. Sherlock’s expression softened.

“I should be asking you that.”

“I’m fine, really! Never better! Oh! No, that’s not what I- I’m fine. Well,” she looked down at herself and plucked at the ill-fitting and obviously male clothing she wore, “I would love a fresh change of clothes. My things disappeared the day after I left Bart’s and To- I mean Sebastian gave me his things to wear, but he wouldn’t explain why he needed to take my clothes. I haven’t had anything but this to wear for three weeks! I’ve been washing my knickers out in the sink every night and I’ve been worried about you. He said you would be in danger if I tried to contact anyone? I wanted to call, but I just couldn’t take the chance! And there’s no phone here anyway and he snuck me out of London in the boot of his car, so I had no idea where I was! I wasn’t keen on exploring and getting myself in trouble and please tell me there’s not a constable station over the rise and I could have saved myself _weeks_ ago?”

Sherlock stared at the woman, amazed that he had been able to keep up with her rapid-fire speech, but ignoring all of it just the same. Instead he took a firm hold of Molly’s hand and led her back through the cottage.

“Come along. I’ll tell you what I know once we’re someplace safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlolly squishies in the next chapter.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly Hooper is the most honest liar Sherlock has ever met.

* * *

The first hour of the drive back into London was filled with Molly’s questions and relieved ramblings once Sherlock revealed that the Watsons, Mrs. Hudson, whom she inexplicably called “Martha”, and Lestrade were all safe and well. Conversation petered off after that and Molly eventually fell asleep, a fact for which Sherlock was grateful. Processing the revelations about Moran and Molly was going to take some time and mental effort, neither of which he had at the moment.

Once reaching London, they switched vehicles. An old delivery van hid them from prying street surveillance as they made their way to a public housing estate in the southeast part of the city. It was more than a little run down, but not seedy enough yet to attract much attention from the Met. This all made it the perfect location for Sherlock’s best bolthole. No one knew about this hideaway, not even Mycroft.  

Sherlock pulled the van into an alley shielded from the closest CCTV camera and woke Molly. They entered an alley access to an emergency stairwell and continued to a tiny second floor flat with no windows.  He pulled a lighter out of his pocket and lit an oil lantern hanging from a hook in the low ceiling. It provided a surprising amount of light. Molly, still not quite awake, looked around at the very forlorn looking room. It was far below even the abandoned cottage in which she had just spent the past few weeks, Sherlock knew. Furnished only with a narrow cot, a ratty armchair, and the oil lamp, it was roughly the size of a large wardrobe. It didn’t even have a proper lavatory, just a curtained off area with a sink and toilet. He hadn’t chosen it for its beauty, but for its location and the fact that it had accidentally been left off of all the estate records. He was genuinely off the grid here.

Molly had stopped her wandering, not that she could go far, and was staring at a stack of clothing on the cot. She picked up the shirt and looked at Sherlock over her shoulder. 

“You stayed here after you… jumped?” Molly always paused and swallowed when referencing his fake suicide jump. 

Sherlock frowned. “Yes. How do you know that?”

Molly held up the aubergine shirt. “You were wearing this when you left in the hearse.” 

Sherlock chose not to comment on the fact that Molly could remember exactly what he was wearing that day and instead stepped forward to pick up the trousers. He handed them to Molly and gestured to the curtained area. 

“You can freshen up a bit and change into these.” 

Molly gave him a puzzled look and it was then that Sherlock realized how odd that might seem. She was wearing perfectly clean, if somewhat atrocious, clothes and he had just handed her an outfit that had been sitting on that cot for almost three years. Aside from the musty smell the fabric would have absorbed from the stale air in the room, there was a very obvious blood stain on the collar and a hole in the knee. Sherlock masked his discomfort by straightening his spine and looking down his nose at her in his most imperious impression of Mycroft. He found this pose to be quite effective when he needed to seem more confident that he actually was. 

He was prepared for Molly to ask why he expected her to change. There were a dozen excuses buzzing through his head, none of which were true and a few that were downright illogical. Trying to choose a plausible excuse was proving a challenge. He certainly was not going to admit that the sight of her wearing Sebastian Moran’s clothes made him angry on levels he did not care to contemplate. Molly didn't question him, though. She just nodded and stepped behind the little curtained off area to change. Sherlock was relieved and chagrined at the same time. Thankfully she wasn’t going to ask, but then again she probably already guessed the answer.  Damn, he hated the way Molly Hooper always seemed to catch him wrong-footed.

He sat on the end of the cot and waited, grinning briefly at the sound of the tap being turned on in what proved to be a futile attempt to mask the rather obvious sounds of Molly availing herself of the toilet. Her modesty was always something of a surprise to him. Given the fact that she spent most of her day stripping bodies and cutting them open, one would assume Molly Hooper to be less body-conscious.

Molly emerged from behind the curtain, smoothing a hand over the shirt. Sherlock noted, almost simultaneously, that his clothes fit her much better (surprising, how much thinner he used to be) and that Molly was blushing. She plucked at the loose trousers and smiled shyly. She stepped to him and offered up the offending garments she had been wearing.

“What do we do with these?” 

Sherlock took garments and carelessly tossed them in a corner. “We can make a fire if it gets cold later.” 

Molly giggled and gingerly sat down on the opposite end of the cot. “So, what’s next? Are we waiting for nightfall so I can go back to my flat?” 

“You’re not going back there.” 

“But Sebastian-” 

Sherlock jumped to his feet and Molly abruptly abandoned her train of thought. She watched him as he became more agitated. 

“I didn’t know that was his real name until he convinced me to go into hiding.”

“You knew he was an agent working for Mycroft,” Sherlock said, pacing all of the four feet to the far wall and back, “You were lying to me from the moment I came back.” 

“You’re angry.” 

“Oh! You saw through my carefully constructed mask! How very clever of you.” 

Molly’s eye twitched. “I would think you, of all people, could understand why I agreed to Mycroft’s plan.” 

“Mycroft’s plan. What was that again exactly? Oh, yes! Deceive and dissemble.”

Molly shot up, her hands clenched at her sides. "Are you actually standing there in self-righteous indignation because someone lied to you?"

"This is different," Sherlock hissed through his teeth.

"How, exactly?" Molly huffed.

“You manipulated me for half a year! I’m supposed to be fine with that?”

"Oh because Sherlock Holmes _never_ manipulated anyone in his life, especially not _Molly Hooper_ ,” she mocked. “At least I did what I did because I thought it was to protect you!”

“Protect me?” he growled, stepping in her personal space. Molly took a step back, but otherwise showed not one trace of being cowed. Sherlock took another step forward out of spite. Molly’s retreat was halted by the wall behind her.

Sherlock knew he was being unreasonable at best and, at worst, a complete hypocrite, but still felt justified in his anger. Of all of the people to lie to him so well and for so long, it had to be Molly Hooper. Even Mary hadn’t surprised him so much. He had, at least, seen Mary Morstan as a liar from the start. Molly Hooper was not a natural liar, but she was an intractably loyal woman to a chosen few and Mycroft had used that against her.

Oh how he hated this feeling of being out of his depth! It simply wasn’t fair. After almost a year of trying to undo the damage of Mary’s lie, now he was expected to simply accept Molly Hooper’s subterfuge? Had he really been so blinded by his need to be better for her that he couldn’t see the lie? Or was she just that good? Had she enjoyed the playacting as much as Sebastian implied?

Sherlock took another step forward, smirking in satisfaction as Molly flattened herself against the wall. A fleeting look of alarm crossed her face, before Molly set her features into a determined frown. The blush blossoming on her cheeks gave away what the frown attempted to conceal. Sherlock reached for Molly’s wrist. Seeing what he was about, she quickly crossed her arms, shoving her hands into her armpits to keep him from taking her pulse.  He leaned over her, perfectly aware of how menacing his greater height could be. Satisfaction curled through him as he watched Molly’s eyes dilate, her pupils wide and black. Her breathing became more rapid and slightly laboured… as did his.

Sherlock took a step back, inhaling with deliberate slowness. Molly was watching him with wary interest and just a hint of disappointment.

“If you were so worried for my safety,” Sherlock said, more to rekindle his dwindling anger than anything, “then why didn’t you visit me while I was in hospital?”

“I did,” Molly said, a little calmer now. She let her arms fall back to her sides “Several times, in fact. You were unconscious, or, well, semi-conscious. I held your hand while you rambled.”

“What did I say?” 

“Things,” she said with a shrug. She looked him in the eye again and said, “Things I’ll ask you about later, when this is all over and I’m prepared to hear the answers.” 

Sherlock looked away, uncomfortable with what he might have said in his delirium and more uncomfortable with what had just happened. He suddenly felt tired, more tired than he had been since he returned from his Great Hiatus, as Mycroft liked to call it. For once, the Work had worn him to a thread instead of bolstering his mind. This, he realized, was what Mycroft truly meant when he insisted that caring was not an advantage.

“So, why can’t I go home yet?” Molly persisted. 

“It’s still not safe. I’ve spent the last three weeks trying to find you and the Moriarty imposter is still out there somewhere,” he hadn’t meant it to sound like an accusation, but a small part of him did blame Molly for the wasted time and he had no doubt she could tell. 

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, “I really did believe I was helping.” She turned and gave him an earnest look, “The imposter thinks I’m dead, right? So can we use that against him somehow? Maybe I can-” 

“No!” Sherlock barked, “First thing tomorrow morning, I’m taking you somewhere safe so I can actually think! I’m three weeks behind this opponent as it is!”

"I can help! I want to help!" Molly insisted desperately. 

“Staying where I put you will be help enough,”  Sherlock growled, “don’t argue with me on this, Molly. I finished one of the most draining cases of my career, one in which -oh yes!- _I was shot_ , and then I’m put on a plane to exile, only to be unceremoniously jerked back to civilization by my doting brother. Instead of actually _solving_ a case that could potentially affect the entire country, I end up being led a merry chase by you and _Sebastian_ -” 

“Wait,” she interrupted, her voice loud, but quavering slightly, “what do you mean by ‘exile?’ “ 

Sherlock cursed his temper as he spun away from Molly. He turned back and said, “That last case? The one in which I was shot? I might have broken a few laws in the process of solving it.”

“That’s hardly new,” Molly stated without irony.

“No, but the laws that I broke certainly were,” Sherlock said with an air of nonchalance. He added a shrug for effect. “National security may have been involved.” 

“Oh, Sherlock.” That was a phrase with which he was all too familiar, but Molly’s tone was more concerned than disappointed. 

“The powers that be decided prison might create more of a media storm than they were willing to weather, so Mycroft talked them into forced exile,” Sherlock finished truthfully. It was fundamentally the truth, anyway.  

“So, when this all started, you had already left?” Molly asked, but it wasn’t really a question. 

Sherlock just looked at her, schooling his features into a familiar emotionless mask.

“You just left without telling me?” Molly whispered incredulously. 

“There was no time.” 

“Not even for a text message?”

“What would be the point?”

"I thought, by now, I at least rated a good-bye, Sherlock," she said softly. The quiet hurt in Molly’s voice was worse than a thousand slaps. "Even in a text....anything."

" _I couldn't!_ " He roared. Molly flinched and Sherlock felt his chest squeeze. She hadn't flinched away from one of his outbursts since he came back and he had made her do it twice now.  "I couldn't see you Molly. I'm good at hiding things from most people, but not you. I thought I was, but you," He slumped a little, sitting on the arm of the dilapidated chair. "You escape me sometimes, Molly. I knew if I made contact with you-" 

Sherlock stopped himself, unwilling to have that particular conversation just then. He had wasted valuable time over the past three weeks wallowing in emotions he didn't know how to process. He couldn't afford to keep doing that, not until this case had been closed. 

"You weren’t just being exiled, were you? You thought-" Molly stopped and brought a hand to cover her mouth. Tears sprang to her eyes and he knew that once again, she had seen too much. Well, so much for not having that conversation.

"It was a suicide mission," Sherlock confirmed bluntly.  

“Why would they- why would Mycroft let them do that to you?”

“I shot a man, Molly.”

“But if it was in self-defense?”

"I murdered a man, Molly!” He spat, more disgusted with himself for not being able to keep this from her than with her naive assumption of his justification. “It wasn't self-defense. He was unarmed. His hands were in the air... and I took John's gun and put a bullet through his eye socket."

She looked at him with wide eyes full of fear, horror and, inconceivably, compassion.  After several minutes of complete silence, Molly spoke. Her voice was strong and utterly calm. "Tell me everything," she insisted.

So he did. From the day at the lab to his confusion, then acceptance, over what Mary did, all the way to that fatal shot that fulfilled the vow made all those months ago. He talked until his voice was hoarse and his head ached. The whole story poured out like blood flowing from an open wound: the betrayal, the fear, the understanding and forgiveness; anger, sadness, and the helpless acceptance of what he must do to protect the people he loved. 

Molly didn't move throughout, didn't interrupt or utter a sound. Sherlock finished, shoulders slightly bowed now from the effort to express himself without letting emotion overwhelm him. The room was still, the quiet disturbed only by Sherlock's own laboured breathing. Just when he thought he couldn't bear it any longer, Molly moved to stand in front of him.

She didn't say anything, didn't try to get him to look up, just, ever so slowly and gently, drew him into an embrace. Molly wrapped her arms around his shoulders, one hand cupping the back of his head. Sherlock felt her cheek rest atop his head as his face pressed into her body, blocking the light, blocking everything but the feel of soft cotton and the smell of Molly. He didn't return the hug exactly, but brought his hands to grasp at her waist and clutching the loose fabric. He didn't cry, there were no noises of distress, but he trembled.

Sherlock wasn’t certain how long they stayed like that, just that Molly never once tried to pull away and that was even more comforting than the warmth of her arms around his body. He was uncharacteristically reluctant to end the closeness, but he had had his moment of weakness and needed to get back in the game. Sherlock, gently as he could, set Molly away from him. He caught her eye and gave her a warm, genuine smile.

“You need to get some rest,” Sherlock said, nodding towards the cot, “go to sleep. I’ll take the chair. We need to leave early tomorrow.”

He half expected her to argue again and she opened her mouth as though to speak, but closed it again. She gave a jerky nod and walked to the cot. Sherlock was briefly disappointed that she had backed down so easily, illogical though that thought was. Having Molly out of the way was the best course of action. He really did need to get his mind back in order and get back to the Work.

“If it helps,” Molly said as she slipped off her shoes and slid under the covers. “Sebastian dislikes you as much as you dislike him.”

It did help, actually. “Really?”

“Can’t stand you.”

“Good.”

Sherlock blew out the lantern and flopped into the armchair. He heard the rough bedding rustle as Molly made herself comfortable.  

"So,” she said brightly, “we’re not going to talk about why you wanted me to change out of Sebastian’s clothes and into yours?”

“Nope,” Sherlock said with a pop of his lips.

A giggle floated towards him in the darkness. “You know, you lads could have settled this back at the cottage with a ruler…”

“Oh, shut up.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of a baby pirate in the next chapter. Kids, never let your parents keep control of the photos.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An introspective interlude for Molly Hooper.

* * *

“You’re taking me _where_?”

 

Sherlock gave Molly a brief glance before returning his attention to the road. Her tone was alarmed enough to sound almost panicky. He wondered if she had heard him correctly, so repeated, “I’m taking you to my parents’ home in Surrey. Not even Mycroft will think to look there for you there.” Silence met his statement and he chanced another look at his companion. She looked equal parts terrified and furious.

 

“You can’t just… I can’t meet…” Molly was doing that thing where she was trying to say three things at once while her cheeks puffed out and consequently, nothing was making sense. She took a breath and demanded, “You’ve got to stop at the next village so I can buy something to wear!”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“I can’t arrive at your parent’s home looking like a member of your homeless network! You stop this car right now!”

 

Sherlock sighed, “I will not stop. _Don’t hit me while I’m trying to drive!_ ” Accident averted, he grumbled, “I liked it better when you were timid around me.” That earned him another smack on the arm. Sherlock sped up, hoping to make it past the next road sign before Molly noticed, “We don’t have time to stop,” he insisted, “and you look perfectly fine.” She didn’t, of course, but he really wanted to get her settled with his parents so he could finally get to work.

 

Molly inhaled in what Sherlock knew was preparation for a long rant about first impressions and all of those tedious social niceties that he found so boring. “According to my mother,” he interrupted in a reasonable tone, “there are quite nice shops in the area and I know she would enjoy the chance to take you out. She always wanted a daughter to dress up like a little doll.” The last was said with the hint of a sneer. It was a phrase he had heard quite often once he and Mycroft had reached marriageable ages. It was her way of building up to the standard I-want-grandbabies speech.

 

“But,” Molly sighed, accepting her fate, “I can’t believe I’m going to meet your mother dressed like this. I haven’t even had a proper bath today and I had to clean my teeth with a towel.”

 

Sherlock sighed, “Molly. I lived with the woman for eighteen years. Believe me when I say that she has seen _so much worse_.”

 

Because John’s voice in his head was screaming at him to show some sympathy, Sherlock reached out and gave Molly’s knee an awkward pat. They finished the journey in silence. When they turned onto the gravel drive leading to his parents’ Georgian cottage, Molly turned to him again.

 

“They’re rich?” she said plaintively, “I should have known. You with your bespoke Spencer Hart suits, Mycroft with his £600 silk ties…”

 

Sherlock stopped the car at the door and, as Molly was reluctantly getting out, he latched on to the last bit of what she said and demanded,  “Wait! How do you know how much Mycroft’s ties cost?”

 

Molly ignored him as a lovely, well dressed elderly lady exited the front door and waved cheerily. “Well, hello! This is a surprise.”

 

Sherlock tried not to wince at his mother’s overly enthusiastic tone. He knew when he decided to bring Molly to his parents for safe keeping that his mother would be insufferable about it. His motivation for solving this case quickly increased significantly. If it took too long, Sherlock had no doubt Mummy would have him married off to Molly and set up in a cottage next to Mr. Stipleberry’s  apiary. The sudden image that sprang to his mind with that thought was unexpectedly pleasant and Sherlock erased it immediately.

 

“Come in,” Mummy was saying, waving Molly into the entry hall, “I’m always pleased to welcome Sherlock’s friends! Not that he brings many by,” she added giving him a little scolding frown, “other than John and Mary Watson. How are they, dear?”

 

“Fine,” Sherlock responded, but didn’t elaborate. His mother wouldn’t expect him to. Molly, however, gave him a little scolding frown of her own. He ignored them both and gave his mother the briefest and most sanitized explanation as to why Molly would be staying there indefinitely. As he suspected, his mother lit up at the possibility of having a young person to fuss over. He finally made proper introductions.

 

“Mother, may I present Miss Molly Hooper, senior histopathologist at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. Molly, my mother, Mrs. Holmes, professor emeritus of mathematics at the University of London.”

 

As the ladies shook hands, his mother asked, “Is Molly short for Margaret or Mary?”

 

“Neither,” Sherlock put in, “it’s not short for anything.”

 

“It’s very pretty! I do so love the melodic quality of simple names.”

 

Molly didn’t do a very good job of hiding her surprise at that declaration. Mrs. Holmes missed neither the look of bewilderment nor the quick glance at Sherlock.  

 

“Oh, don’t blame me for that,” the gracious lady declared with a huff, “I gave him the perfectly ordinary name of William. ‘Sherlock’ is one of those old family names that one feels obligated to pass on. I certainly never expected him to despise being called Billy so much that he would insist on Sherlock.”

 

“Billy?” Molly squeaked. Sherlock could feel the woman’s glee like a shockwave.

 

“Yes. The only time he ever let me call him any form of William was during his pirate phase,” She leaned closer to Molly, her eyes twinkling merrily, and added,  “Did you know he spent months researching everything he could find out about pirates -he was all of six, mind you- and then declared himself Billy Bowlegs, Scourge of the Seas? He wouldn’t answer to anything else for a year.”

 

“ _Really!_?” Molly’s grin was splitting her face in a most annoying and unattractive manner.

 

“Oh, yes indeed. He tried to pull up the nursery floor to hide his chocolate coins. Wouldn’t bathe unless it was to strip and stand out in the rain, naked as a jaybird, because that’s how it was done on the high seas. Another time, he sank a neighbor’s dog cart in the pond because he ‘couldn’t find a proper ship to sink.’ He was a handful, that one.”

 

“I forbid you to repeat those stories ever again,” Sherlock said with cold menace.

 

The women looked at him and then back at each other.

 

“Oh, please tell me you have pictures.”

 

“Loads, dear.”

 

“Oh, God,” Sherlock moaned as he dashed out and practically ran to the car.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Molly settled in more quickly and with infinitely more ease than she would have expected. After Sherlock bolted, Mrs. Holmes (who made no mention whatsoever of the state Molly arrived in) fed her a hot meal -which tasted a little odd, but was still better than the bags of stale crisps which made up her meals of late. As they chatted, Mrs. Holmes handed over a set of gloriously soft pyjamas and sent Molly off to bed with a cup of warm milk. It wasn’t until the next day that she met Mr. Holmes and was finally able to buy some proper clothes.

 

There was a bit of a hiccup in that plan when Molly realized she had been dumped off on Sherlock’s parents with no means of paying for anything. Of course the senior Holmes’ brushed that off, Mr. Holmes specifically stating that it was worth a mint to see the joy in his wife’s face at being allowed to finally shop for a girl. He happily handed over his credit card. It was still awkward for Molly. She had been taking care of herself since her dad died and wasn’t used to gifts in general. Accepting a brand new wardrobe (the lingerie sets alone cost more than the rent on her flat) was a lot to take in -especially when the couple flat-out refused to accept the idea of repayment- but Molly was a practical person and knew she had no choice. She simply resolved to make certain to send them nice gifts once she was allowed to return to her life.

 

All things considered, she settled into the routine at the cottage quite nicely. It didn’t take long for Molly to discover that Mycroft's and Sherlock's eccentricities came straight from their mother. She was a dear, no denying that, and it wasn't just that Mrs. Holmes was an utter genius herself. The woman was practically a walking encyclopaedia of knowledge ("That's how we survived before Google, my dear. We memorized things."). No, it was little, ordinary things, like cooking.

 

Mother Holmes loved to cook. She was constantly puttering around the kitchen whipping up a batch of this, baking a dozen of that. On the surface, it looked quite ordinary and domestic. There was a rub, however, a subtle plot twist that Molly had come to expect any time she had to deal with members of the Holmes clan: Mrs. Holmes was a spectacularly bad cook. Oh she mixed and boiled and chopped and fried like someone who knew what they were about, but frankly, it all tasted like rubbish. Even Molly, whose taste buds had been effectively killed over the course of a decade eating almost exclusively in various NHS canteens, thought it tasted awful. It took some time, but Molly eventually figured out that Mrs. Holmes enjoyed the chemistry of cooking, not the results.

 

Father Holmes was also a little different than conversations with his sons had led Molly to believe. True, he wasn't the genius his wife and children were, but he could hold his own in a conversation on just about any topic. He was a very lovely, caring man who wrapped everyone around him up in an unconditional acceptance that even Mycroft Holmes couldn't indefinitely resist.

 

There was also Father Holmes' uncanny ability to know just what someone needed at any given moment. Over the weeks that Molly stayed at the Holmes' home, she had lost track of the times she found herself sitting, morosely looking out of a window and wishing for a cup of something warm, only to find a cup of tea or cocoa being placed on the table beside her by Father Holmes. A book offered when her mind needed distracting, a little chore just when she was feeling like a leech and a dozen other little gestures were all offered with no fanfare or expectations of repayment.

 

Molly would have felt bad about imposing on the couple, but she felt that, in spite of the circumstances, the Holmes' were genuinely glad to play hosts to one of their sons' friends. With sons like Mycroft and Sherlock -especially with sons like Mycroft and Sherlock- it was unlikely that the couple were given the opportunity to dote on anyone very often. They were, in a sense, parents without children. Molly was a daughter without parents. For those few weeks of isolation, they took comfort in filling those spaces in each other’s lives.

 

Unfortunately, her rapport with the Holmes' did nothing to ease her worry for Sherlock, Mycroft, the Watsons and everyone else she cared about. Part of Molly railed at being so cut off from all of the people she had come to care for so much. The argument she had had with Sherlock before being left on his parents' doorstep was no less valid for her having lost the fight. She should be there to help. Not being there grated on her nerves and ignited her too-active imagination.

 

“You look upset again, dear,” Mr. Holmes’ soothing voice brought Molly gently out of her reverie. “Now, I thought we agreed that you would come to talk to me when you started to worry about that boy of mine. I am much more experienced in fretting over our Sherlock.”

 

Molly smiled, something that just came naturally when one was in the presence of such a gentle person as Mr. Holmes. She wasn’t prepared to talk about her concern, not yet, so she asked him to tell her a story. He grinned broadly even as he gave her a knowing look and set about retelling all sorts of lovely, ordinary stories from his courtship with the future Mrs. Holmes. It was in those moments that Molly was reminded of what it was to be a daughter to a doting father.

 

“Well, she was a little blotto by then, you see,” Mr. Holmes said with a conspiratorial grin, “and I said, ‘I should take you home now, don’t you think?’ She gave me the most confused look I’ve ever seen and said, ‘Good heavens. Aren’t we married yet? I thought surely we must be by now! What are you dithering about?’ So I dropped to one knee and proposed right there. Of course, she didn’t remember a bit of it the next day. I had to ask her again.”

 

Molly laughed in delight, “She said yes and you lived happily ever after!”

 

“No. She turned me down flat.”

 

“What!?” Molly was scandalized, to say the least. “But… I… What?”

 

Mr. Holmes smiled and shrugged. “She was frightened, so she said no. Wouldn’t speak to me for weeks after.  Whenever I tried to talk to her, she ran away.”

 

Molly studied the elderly man and, even though she knew the story ultimately had a happy ending, she fully sympathized with the pain that must have caused him.  She knew what that was like, reaching out only to have your hands slapped. “How did you manage not to just give up on her?”

 

“Oh, I came close a few times, especially when she said something particularly nasty. The woman’s got a tongue in her head, let me tell you, but,” he took Molly’s hand and gave it  a squeeze, “I knew she needed me. Her life was full of true brilliance and I was one of the few people who didn’t try to make her conform to expectations. I’ve never tried to make her pretend to be normal.”

 

Molly nodded, a sheen of moisture in her eyes. “Normal is overrated.”

 

"Extraordinary people are, well, extraordinary," he said with a self-deprecating smile, "but they've got no common sense. They need people like us to nag them to eat and to sleep and all of the things they think are boring, but which are necessary for life."

 

“But is it worth it?” Molly asked, hardly able to believe that she could voice the question at all. If there was anyone who could give her the answer, it was this good man sitting with her. “Sometimes I feel like a piece of furniture: there when I’m needed, but otherwise ignored.”

 

“I know it doesn’t make sense, dear, but being taken for granted by someone like Sherlock means you are trusted. He doesn’t have to be on his guard with you, that’s why he doesn’t always pay attention.”

 

 

“It means he doesn’t find me interesting enough to pay attention.”

 

“Now who’s taking something for granted? Trust isn’t as easy for some as it is for us.” he gave her a very fatherly look and added, “and you can only be ignored for as long as you allow it. I have a feeling you stopped doing that a long time ago.”

 

Molly smiled. Perhaps she had stopped allowing herself to be treated like really useful lab equipment. Sherlock hardly ever called her John anymore.

 

Mr. Holmes patted her hand and gave her a serious look, “Loving an extraordinary person is never easy, sometimes it can be downright demoralizing, but they need us and that makes it worth the work.”  He grinned mischievously, “Most of the time. The rest of the time we can just give them what-for. ”

 

Molly laughed as she impulsively threw her arms around his neck. Mr. Holmes responded by giving her the first proper hug she had had in a long time. He gave her a squeeze and said, “Dry those tears now, my girl. If Mother sees that I’ve made you cry, I won’t get any pudding later and we both know it’s the only thing she makes that’s remotely edible.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

 


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to leave this here and walk away quickly.

* * *

 

A few weeks later, Molly was clearing up the breakfast things when Mrs. Holmes handed her the phone. “Myc wants to speak to you, dear.”

Molly grabbed the phone, excited at the prospect of what he had to say. “Mycroft! Is it over?”

“This incident has been closed, yes,” was the expectedly evasive reply, “I’m calling to let you know that Sherlock is on his way to you. He won’t want to dawdle, so if you could be ready to leave immediately, I’m sure he will be grateful.”

“All right,” Molly said hesitantly.

“Miss Hooper,” Mycroft paused and his uncharacteristic hesitancy set off alarms in Molly’s head. Mycroft sighed, a defeated sound coming from such a stoic man, and continued. “This case has been more draining for my brother than he anticipated. I know you will have questions, but if you could-”

“I won’t push him to tell me if he doesn’t want,” Molly agreed, “Just tell me if he’s okay.”

“I was rather hoping you could make sure of that, Miss Hooper.”

“Something bad has happened. Is he hurt?” Molly whispered, hoping not to alarm anyone nearby.

Mycroft sighed, “Physically, no,” he rushed on before Molly had a chance to speak, “If you could be ready to go with him Miss Hooper, I suspect you may be the only one that might make his recovery go smoothly.” He rang off without saying goodbye and Molly just stood there staring at the handset, wondering what could have happened to make Mycroft worry about Sherlock’s mental state. The possibilities didn’t bear thinking about and Molly tried very hard not to let her imagination run away with her.

Sherlock arrived an hour later. Molly, as promised, had her borrowed bag packed with all of the clothes and little things Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had insisted she have over the past few weeks. Mrs. Holmes had, in fact, packed for Molly, insisting she have a good meal before Sherlock showed up for she was certain he wouldn’t see to it. Molly had been watching out of the window since and stepped out of the front door just as Sherlock and John pulled up in a battered Land Rover. She could see Sherlock through the windshield. He looked emotionally battered.

Both got out but John, who had his mobile to his ear, stayed by the vehicle. He gave her an affectionate smile and she saw the weariness around his eyes along with the tension around his mouth. John’s worried eyes kept flitting to Sherlock. The fact that John was there at all told Molly that Mary probably wasn’t the one at risk. At nine months along in her pregnancy, John wouldn’t leave his wife unless it was because Sherlock needed him more.

Molly refocused on Sherlock, who had wearily made his way through the gate and up the walk until he was standing right in front of her. Up close, the man looked worse.  His eyes were blood-shot and there was a sadness mixed with anger that Molly had seen only once before. She unconsciously reached out and brushed his cheek, but moved to pull back after realizing what she was doing. Sherlock caught her wrist and pressed her hand back to his face, letting out a bone-weary sigh in the process. Molly swallowed back a lump in her throat.

"Can you tell me about it?" She asked softly.

"I will," he said, "but not now."

"Okay."

“I just want...,” he closed his eyes briefly, “I need to go home.”

Molly knew he meant London, to Baker Street, a place he had carved out for himself that was not shaped by his parents or brother. It was a place he made, on his own terms, filled with people who had passed a test they didn’t know they were being given. Molly ran her thumb across his cheek and nodded.  

“Okay. Let’s go home.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The journey from Surrey back into London was not as tense as it might have been. Molly sat in the back and was surprised when Sherlock joined her instead of sitting up front with John. The conversation was steady, but inconsequential by design. Molly and John chatted about anything but what had been happening for the past two months. Sherlock didn’t speak at all, choosing instead to keep his gaze trained on the view through the window. Halfway home Molly got up enough courage to take his hand. He squeezed back and allowed Molly to hold on until they pulled up at 221B Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson met them at the door, giving Molly a motherly hug before excusing herself to fix a tray for them. She had cooked a meal in anticipation of their return to Baker Street and it was warming in the oven. Sherlock took charge of Molly’s bag and started upstairs without a word. John and Molly followed more slowly. As they entered the flat, Sherlock disappeared into his room and John pulled Molly aside.

“Listen,” he said in an undertone, looking over her shoulder to make sure Sherlock was out of earshot, “I know you probably want to get back to your own flat and sleep in your own bed, but I don’t think he should be alone right now. I would do it, but Mary’s two days past her due date as it is and-” He stopped abruptly when Molly flinched slightly at the mention of Mary’s name. “He told you,” John said. It wasn’t a question.

Molly nodded and said, “I made him tell me everything.”

John took a breath and glanced down, “Right. He should have. You deserved to know what was happening, after everything…” he couldn’t meet her eyes, but he cleared his throat and started again, “Look Molly, I know it’s not… Mary and I-”

Molly grasped his arm, “It’s okay, John.”

He gave her a sharp look, “Is it?”

Molly paused, knowing she had to be completely honest, “It will be. I understand better than you think. If the three of you were able to work it out, I don’t really have any reason not to let it go, do I? I just need some time to process it all, yeah?”

John nodded, his relief evident, “Yeah, absolutely. Of course.”

“Might need to have a chat with Mary sometime, but not ‘til after the baby’s born. So go home and take care of your wife. I’ll see to things here.”

“Right, okay,” John’s expression was grateful and full of affection, “Thank you, Molly.”

He pulled her into a hug.

“Tell Mary I said hello and you let us know about the baby.”

She stood in the doorway and watched as John walked down the stairs. She closed the door and jumped a foot when she saw Sherlock less than a step away.

“How do you do that?” He asked, frowning down at her.

“Do what?” she said, breathless from both the fright and his proximity.

He gestured towards the door, “Accept. Everything that I’ve told you about my encounter with Magnussen, you still just accept me, you accept Mary, with no recriminations. I cannot understand how you do that.

“Did you want me to act differently?”

“Want, no. Expect, yes.” He paused, “I don’t know why I actually expected you to respond in a predictable manner. You, Molly Hooper, do not fit into any predetermined data sets for human behaviour. You constantly defy categorization.”

“Perhaps your data sets are inaccurate,” Molly chuckled.

Sherlock shrugged and Molly could tell he wasn’t going to agree with that assessment, so she changed the subject. “I like your parents,” she said with a smile, “Your mum is wonderful, even if she is a bloody awful cook,” Sherlock’s lip twitched up into a miniscule smile. “And your dad is lovely. Talking to him is better than going to therapy.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock said with a nod, “You remind me of him, actually,” Sherlock stopped and frowned, “which is a disturbing thought and not something I’m ever going to mention again.”

Mrs. Hudson could be heard coming up the steps at that point and Molly met her at the door to offer help. A feast had been prepared, largely for Molly as Mrs. Hudson held out no hope that Sherlock was actually going to eat anything for at least another day. She gave Molly another hug, welcomed her home and went back downstairs.

Molly didn’t bother to demure with regards to the food. She was hungry and frankly quite excited to eat something that would taste like actual food.  She removed the covers, sat down and tucked in. Sherlock fetched cups for the coffee and joined her at the table. Molly made idle comments about how good the food tasted. Sherlock goaded her into describing the horrid creations his mother had prepared and, eventually, he began pinching bits of food from her plate. Between the two of them, they decimated the pot of coffee and ate a heroic portion of the platter of food. Molly covered what was left and slid the tray into the refrigerator.

An awkward silence fell. “I’ll just sleep on the sofa, shall I? I just need to get my things…” her voice trailed off as Sherlock turned and briskly walked back down the hall to his room. She expected him to bring her case, but instead, he brought out a set of his pyjamas. Sherlock knew Molly had night things in her case. She looked at him closely, watching as his eyes darted around settling on a spot above her head. He cleared his throat and stated simply that he would take the sofa and Molly would take his room. She didn’t argue, just took the pyjamas with quiet thanks.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Tossing around and making a twisted mess of the bed linens was about all Molly accomplished once she retired. She certainly wasn’t getting any sleep. Molly huffed a breath of frustration and stared blankly into the semi-darkness of Sherlock’s bedroom. Because she was awake, it did not startle her as it might when the door slowly creaked open. She squinted at the tall shaped making its way across the room and climbing onto the unoccupied side of the bed. Sherlock flopped down on his back by her side and sighed.

“Moriarty had five hand-picked lieutenants that he personally mentored,” Sherlock started without preamble, “You already know one of them was Mycroft's mole.”

“Sebastian,” Molly said as she turned on her side to face him. He was staring at the ceiling.

“Moriarty prepared them all to take over in the event of his death. That was always his endgame: death.  He accepted that long before actually committing suicide. To prepare for that eventuality, he personally trained five potential replacements. Each had the understanding that, in order to take over his organization, they would have to prove themselves.”

“He expected them to compete?”

“Exactly,” Sherlock confirmed. Molly felt her heart squeeze at the lack of excitement in his tone. Usually, when relating the fact for a successful case, his childlike pride was evident. There was no emotion in his voice as he continued. “He expected his lieutenants to engage in a battle to the death with the winner taking over his empire.”

“But you tore his ‘empire’ apart.”

“Mostly. My task was to sever the supply lines and cut off avenues of communication. By scattering the foot soldiers, I created a chaos among the ranks that makes it difficult for the organization to reform.”

Molly didn’t miss the use of the present tense, but she didn’t remark on it. “You never intended to take out the lieutenants?”

Sherlock shook his head, “Working so closely with Moriarty, they would have known as much about me as their leader. I had to maintain the ruse of my death in order to work in secret. The plan was to tear the organization into manageable pieces, then return to the land of the living and pursue the lieutenants.”

Molly frowned, considering this last piece of information. “Did you think Magnussen was one of his lieutenants?”

“Perceptive, as usual,” Sherlock murmured, his tone fractionally lighter, “Yes. Mycroft was convinced that Magnussen was working on his own, but I knew there was a very skilled information broker among Moriarty’s inner circle.”

“But it wasn’t Magnussen.”

“No.” Molly waited, but Sherlock didn’t elaborate.

“This information broker,” Molly started carefully, “was he the one that came after me at Bart’s?”

“Yes.” Again, no attempt to explain. Molly allowed the silence to drag on while she contemplated the wisdom of trying to push Sherlock further. In the end, she didn’t have to.

“It was Irene Adler,” he stated flatly, as though he were pointing out the color of the sky.

Molly felt hot and cold all at once. Thanks to John Watson, she had an idea what the woman -The Woman- had meant to Sherlock. Without stopping to think about it, Molly reached out and put a comforting hand on Sherlock’s chest. He turned his head slightly in her direction. It was too dim in the room to see his eyes properly, but she knew what she would find there.

“Do you know who she is?” he asked suddenly.

“I know she wasn’t actually the woman you identified in the morgue that Christmas.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, so she added, “John gave me details later, while you were gone. It helped him to talk about your old cases.” She took a breath and carefully continued, “I know, that night, you really thought she was the woman in the morgue. I saw the look on your face. I could tell she wasn’t just a case. You…” Molly swallowed and forged ahead, “you had feelings for her.”

Sherlock shifted, returning his gaze to the ceiling. Molly would have pulled away, but he covered  her hand with his own, holding it to his chest. She felt relieved at the acceptance of the small gesture of comfort. The couple remained quiet and still for a long time before Sherlock began to relay the rest of the story. He described Adler’s plan to take Molly as a distraction, to convince Sherlock and everyone else that Moriarty had indeed faked his own death, all the while she was working behind the scenes. His voice was devoid of any emotion.

While attention was focused on Molly’s disappearance, several other things were going on at once. Strategic members of society were kidnapped and tortured for information; enemies were eliminated, resources gathered. Her plan had been to strike at Mycroft and gain control of the intelligence services before branching out into the rest of Europe.

“I was the reason she knew about you,” Sherlock blurted once he finished his description of Adler’s plan. Molly started, causing Sherlock to grip her hand tighter. His gaze never left the ceiling, but his brow furrowed. “I helped her fake her death a second time. Even John didn’t know that fact. I thought I was the only living person that knew, a foolish assumption on my part as it turns out. While I was away, I sought her out.” He stopped again.

“You needed the company,” Molly prompted, ignoring the pang in her chest at the implications, “you thought you could trust her to keep your secret since you were keeping hers.” Molly inhaled a shaky breath and added, ”You missed her.”

“I wanted someone to admire my clever plan,” Sherlock refuted, a hint of bitter contempt coloring his voice, “I sought her out and told her all about my perfect plan. She was suitably impressed, but demanded details. Details are what make the lie. You were the most important detail in this lie, Molly.” She watched his jaw work as he grit his teeth. “You were in danger because I needed an audience.”

Molly wanted to say something supportive and comforting, but she knew it wouldn’t be welcome at that moment, so she held her tongue. She felt his chest rise and fall with his ragged breaths. He gripped her hand and lifted it. Molly took this as a sign that she should pull away, so she did, rolling onto her back. Instead of leaving, as she expected, Sherlock rolled towards Molly, draping himself across her chest. Her arms came up around his shoulders as he pressed his face into her body much as he had back at his bolt-hole. Molly held him close, stroking his hair until she fell asleep.

Sherlock lay listening to Molly’s heartbeat and her soft breathing for hours before he fell into a light doze. He was up early the next morning, taking care to extract himself carefully so as not to wake Molly. He only allowed himself the luxury of watching her sleeping for a moment, before quietly exiting the room. Once he was back in the main room, sitting in his chair, he called his brother.

“Is it done?” he asked as soon as Mycroft answered.

“Our guests are arriving to trade packages just now. You’re certain there won’t be any last minute heroics this time, Sherlock? I’d hate to think we went to all of this trouble just to have you fall victim to misplaced sentiment.”

“My sentiment is no longer misplaced. If this goes wrong, it won’t be because of me, Mycroft.”

“Good. Do give Miss Hooper my regards,” with that, he rang off.

Sherlock set his phone aside and stood, pacing to the large window overlooking Baker Street. His fingers itched to pick up his violin, but he didn’t want to wake Molly just yet for the same reason he waited last evening until she was settled with the lights out before he sought her out. He couldn’t relate his failure in the bright light of day, not because he feared her rejection but because he couldn’t face her forgiveness.

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

Mycroft slipped his mobile into his pocket and nodded to his assistant. Anthea held open the door of a dark sedan as Irene Adler stepped from the back seat. Adler was immaculately dressed as always, a sardonic smile curling her bright red lips as she surveyed the airstrip. The only indication that she was not in complete control of the situation was the set of handcuffs linking her wrists.

She sauntered up to Mycroft Holmes with not one ounce of concern. “This hardly matters, Mr. Holmes. I’m very good at negotiating compromises,” Irene said confidently.

Mycroft ignored her for the moment and instead turned to watch another black sedan make it’s way along the paved runway of the remote airfield. When they passed the last checkpoint, he spoke. “Am I to presume that you are alluding to your ability to discover what men like?”

“Men are easy,” Adler said with a hint of boredom at the prospect, “Men are always so very eager to tell me these things, but women,” she turned to leer at Anthea, “women are far more challenging, but well worth the effort.”

Mycroft expression settled into the same icy mask that had intimidated kings and madmen alike. “What do you like, Miss Adler? We already know that you take delight in tormenting your prey psychologically before you attack. What else entertains the dominatrix? Did you enjoy personally torturing three of my agents to death? Was there a voyeuristic thrill to be had in watching the bomb that killed those two MPs?”

“The sacrifice of pawns is a standard opening gambit, Mr. Holmes. You know that better than anyone,” she remarked, “I saw no reason not to have a little fun as well.”

The other car pulled up several yards away, the doors opened and out stepped four well-dressed men wearing dark glasses. Mycroft registered Adler’s flinch from the corner of his eye. There was a great deal of satisfaction to be had by that reaction. It had been difficult to establish contact with the leaders of the terrorist cell that Adler had run afoul of all those years ago. The promise of a mutually beneficial trade had finally convinced the group to meet.

One of the men reached into the back of the sedan and pulled out two very poorly dressed men who had obviously seen better days. Though he showed no outward sign, Mycroft was relieved to see that they were the missing agents for whom he negotiated the trade. Yes, handing Adler over to this group in exchange for two loyal Englishmen was quite satisfactory indeed.

“I can give you information on the other four,” Adler said calmly. Mycroft was reluctantly impressed with her nerve. “I can give you Moriarty’s pet assassin.”

Mycroft was too much the professional to risk Moran’s status by gloating over a beaten foe. His lips thinned and his expression hardened as he said, “Thank you, but no, Miss Adler. I don’t think I’ll have trouble finding the other four members of Moriarty’s cabal.”

“Very well,” Adler said with bravado, “it seemed the easiest course of action. I assume I’m allowed a last request?”

Mycroft condescended to glance at her and asked, “What might your request be, I wonder?”

“I’d like to send a message to someone.”

Mycroft turned back to the other group and gave them a nod. They began moving forward. “Don’t think that there will be any last minute reprieves, Miss Adler. My brother won’t be coming to your rescue this time.” Irene gave him a smug and self-satisfied look.  Mycroft smiled in response, his hawk-like features rendered more menacing as a result. “This course of action was my dear brother’s idea.” Satisfaction flared at the momentary break in Adler’s expression as she wavered. He leaned forward to murmur, “You really should have left Miss Hooper alone.” With that, he gave her a little shove and set her feet towards her destiny.

Once the trade was made and the agent secured in suitable safe houses, he returned to the familiar confines of his office at the Diogenes Club. Comfortable and with a cup of tea to hand, Mycroft sent a text message to Sebastian Moran.

_One down. Three to go._

 

* * *

 


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All things must adapt or die. This is as true in relationships as it is in Nature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. The only reason I can give you this final chapter today is because of the patience and skill of my beta reader, Stormweaver. She took the mess I handed her last night and helped me refine it until I had what I hope is a satisfying conclusion to this story. 
> 
> Sadly, even Stormweaver's great skill couldn't prevent me from adding a bit of cracky humour. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has commented, kudoed and clicked on this story. You made continuing to write fanfic easier.

* * *

Sherlock carefully opened the door to his bedroom and slipped inside. He was a little disappointed by the fact that his guest was already awake, but still approached Molly Hooper and asked after her night’s rest. Molly stifled a scream and reflexively threw a pillow in his general direction. Thankfully for Sherlock and the tray he was holding, it fell short of the mark. Molly clutched her chest as he came further into the room, sidestepping the pillow, and set the tray on the night stand. Sherlock cleared his throat and slid his hands in his pockets.

 

“Problem?” he asked casually as he stood looking down at the frazzled woman.

 

“Yes,” Molly took a calming breath, “you really need to stop sneaking up on me. You’re worse than Toby.”

 

“I am nothing like the satanic feline that has taken possession of your flat,” Sherlock said coldly. The very idea that he was in anyway similar to that four-legged fiend was offensive.

 

“You still haven’t forgiven him for that scratch?”

 

“No,” he insisted, “I haven’t and I would thank you not to compare me to that demonic creature again.”

 

“It was a tiny little mark and you were trying to poison him!”

 

“It wasn’t poison. It was a sedative I’ve been working on for months,” Sherlock said, his irritation morphing into enthusiasm. “It’s really quite fascinating. I designed it to self-adjust to individual metabolic-”

 

“You drugged him. He scratched you. You’re even,” Molly cut in. Turning her attention to the tray, she asked suspiciously, “Why did you bring me breakfast in bed?”

 

“John always prepared breakfast for the women he invited to stay over.”

 

Molly blushed deeply, but smiled as she said, “I think that’s a bit different.”

 

“How?” Sherlock asked, but Molly busied herself with the glass of milk. Sherlock moved the tray to straddle Molly’s lap and sat on the edge of the bed as she ate. He pinched bits from the plate which seemed to please Molly. She was always trying to feed him up.

 

“Mmm,” Molly hummed around a mouthful of sausage, “this is marvelous!”

 

“I imagine everything tastes marvelous after weeks of eating my mother’s concoctions.”

 

Molly giggled, “How did you and Mycroft survive to adulthood?”

 

“We developed cast iron stomachs,” he said wryly, “Our father wasn’t above smuggling in food from the neighbors, which probably explains Mycroft’s obsessive fondness for cake.”

 

That comment earned Sherlock a full laugh, the remnants of which lit the edges of Molly’s sleep rumpled face even after she continued to devour breakfast. Her hair was a fright, the pyjama top was far too large, there was rheum crusted in the corners of her eyes and a smudge of jam on her chin. Sherlock rather liked the sight of Molly Hooper sitting in his bed, in his clothes, eating food he prepared.

 

Without thinking, he used his thumb to wipe away the dot of jam on Molly’s chin. Molly froze and watched intently as he licked the sweet substance from his finger. Sherlock watched her watching him and catalogued various biological responses. The dilation of Molly’s pupils and the slight hitch in her breathing was quite fascinating. A pleasing shade of pink slowly spread from her cheeks, down her neck and disappeared down into the dark shadow of her cleavage.

 

There was a now familiar fluttering in his stomach when Molly suddenly looked up and caught his eye. Sherlock had long ago mastered the appearance of complete apathy, but Molly had, in turn, mastered the ability to see through that mask. He wasn’t half as unaffected as he pretended and Molly could see that very well.  In that moment, Sherlock was as drawn to Molly as she to him and this, Sherlock mused, made the woman dangerous. The parameters of their interactions had changed without Sherlock noticing.

 

Sherlock pulled away and stood up abruptly, stalking over to the small window that looked out onto a brick wall. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his rumpled trousers, making mental note of the fact that he had been in the same clothing for more than two days now. Usually, after the successful conclusion of a case, he saw to his personal grooming immediately. This time he had been too anxious to get to Molly and far too tired once he had.

 

Too much had changed in those two days. Sherlock never liked change. Being out of control of his life was the only circumstance he detested more than change. There had been little under his control since he made the choice to kill Magnussen. Deception upon deception had been revealed, so many that he began to question his own intelligence. How had so many people been able to deceive him so thoroughly?

 

Irene Adler’s betrayal had cut deep, but his hand in making that betrayal possible was a far worse fact to contemplate. He hadn’t said it the night before and knew Molly would not expect it, but he owed her an apology. One of the constants in his life was the recurring need to apologize to Molly Hooper for some “act of total bastardry,” as John liked to say. That at least had not changed.

 

Sherlock became slightly lost in his own mind and therefore didn’t notice Molly setting the breakfast tray aside or hear her bare feet on the carpet. He didn’t know she had moved until he felt a warm touch between his shoulder blades. She was doing it again: offering him comfort and forgiveness where he deserved derision. He turned to find Molly standing much closer than he had expected. With Molly barefooted, the height difference between them was even more pronounced.

 

“Sherlock,” Molly started, but Sherlock quickly pressed the tips of his fingers to her mouth and gave his head a shake. When Molly nodded, he moved his hand down to her throat, thumb resting against her jugular vein and fingers gently curling around the side of her neck.

 

“The Woman caught my attention immediately. I think we both know how difficult it is to capture my attention,” he began, resisting the urge to stop when he saw the flash of hurt in Molly’s eyes. Allowing himself to acknowledge he had emotions was always uncomfortable. Speaking of those emotions was beyond distasteful, but Sherlock owed Molly this small act of penance. “I don’t think it’s putting too fine a point on it to say Irene Adler changed my life.” He felt Molly’s swallow beneath his palm. “Sentiment, physical attraction and emotional attachment were all aspects of human nature that I found useless to the work. I was quite the expert at expunging those human characteristics from myself. My goal was to become completely detached, to be a truly unbiased observer capable of using data to draw conclusions without the taint of emotional context.”

 

Sherlock moved his thumb along her neck in soft strokes. “I had it all locked up in a tidy little Pandora’s Box. John, and a few others had begun to pick the lock, so to speak, but Irene used a crowbar to rip the lid off, if you’ll forgive the metaphor,” Sherlock said with a slight curl to the edge of his mouth. Molly smiled. “I knew what she was,” he continued more seriously, “At the risk of sounding narcissistic,” he paused and met Molly’s wry look, “sounding _more_ narcissistic, what attracted me was our common characteristics. I had never met anyone who could match me deduction for deduction and I found that…” Sherlock trailed off as he searched for the proper term.

 

“Totally hot?” Molly supplied with a smile that was only slightly strained.

 

“Alluring,” Sherlock said, giving her a side glance. He fell silent again, watching Molly’s deliberately casual expression. “I thought I understood her completely. When she revealed herself to be another form of Moriarty…” he swallowed and refocused his gaze to a spot above Molly’s head.

 

“You aren’t like them, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock laughed bitterly, but didn’t respond.

 

“You’re not,” Molly said firmly, reaching up to take his face in her hands and force Sherlock to look at her. “You know why you’re different? You make that choice. You choose to use your mind to solve crimes, not commit them. Every day you wake up and, whether you do it consciously or not, you choose to use your mind for Society, not against it. It takes a lot of courage to do that, Sherlock, to keep making that choice every day, especially when there are so few people who really see that struggle.”

 

Sherlock stared at this woman who never failed to maintain utter faith in his character, even when he wallowed in his own contrariness. Her small, fine-boned hands were warm on his cheek and the skin of her throat was soft beneath his fingers. His hand almost spanned the woman’s neck. It would take little to squeeze the breath from her or twist in just the right way to snap her spinal cord. Molly knew this, yet she hadn’t once tried to move his hand or step away. Sherlock felt his chest tighten with a wave of affection for her. He felt another urge, one that occurred so rarely that it took the detective a moment to identify.

 

“Molly,” he said, his voice unintentionally dipping an octave. Molly’s shivered. “Molly, kiss me.”

 

Molly’s eyes widened fractionally and her cheeks puffed out in a way that always reminded Sherlock of Mycroft’s goldfish comment. “You want to kiss me?” Molly asked, obviously trying to clarify that she heard what she thought she heard.

 

“Yes,” he started, his eyes tracing the curve of her little mouth, “but I’m overanalyzing the desire to do so. I’m calling up references to the material I used when I was pretending to date Janine and combining that with past experiences to calculate a predictable outcome. I’m overthinking, Molly. You need to kiss me first.”

 

Molly, as always, obliged Sherlock’s odd request. Pulling him down, she placed  one chaste kiss to his lips, then another and lingering longer the second time. Sherlock began to respond the third time, matching Molly’s movements with his own and settling into the kiss, allowing instinct to take over, however briefly. Molly pulled back first.

 

Molly blinked at him, dazed. “Wow.”

 

“Really?” Sherlock asked, surprised and smug all at once.

 

“Mmm hmm,” she confirmed with a nod. Her eyes fluttered and came into better focus. “You?”

 

He stopped to consider and realized something quite surprising. “My thought processes stopped.”

 

“What?”

 

“My mind was quiet. My thoughts just stopped.” Sherlock sounded every bit as amazed as he felt.

 

“...that’s good….?”

 

“That’s extraordinary! My mind is never quiet, Molly, not _ever_. There are days when it’s bearable, but most days it feels as though my brain were trying to claw it’s way out of my skull. All that stopped while I was kissing you, all that was in _here_ ,” He tapped his temple, “was _you_.” He gazed at Molly as though she were the most interesting puzzle he had ever deciphered. Molly didn’t know exactly how to respond.

 

“Oh! Well that’s- _mmph_!”

 

Whatever Molly was about to say was cut off by Sherlock suddenly wrapping his arms around the woman and pulling her into another kiss. Sherlock would have been surprised by his own enthusiasm had he been able to think. When they finally came up for air, Sherlock said, “You cleared out everything.”

 

“So…,” Molly panted, “I’m like the char woman for your mind palace?”

 

“Exactly!”

 

“Molly Hooper, Mind Palace Parlor Maid.”

 

Sherlock paused and gave her a calculating look. “You would look interesting in a maid’s uniform.”

 

Molly’s eyebrows rose. “Are you flirting?”

 

“Not on purpose. I’m extraordinarily bad at it.”

 

Molly’s grin was met with a soft look from Sherlock. With a sigh, she stepped out of Sherlock’s embrace and began chattering about needing to get dressed, call St. Bart’s, and a series of other completely mundane things. Sherlock gave her a sardonic look and fetched her suitcase, setting it on the edge of the bed and turning to his wardrobe.

 

Molly opened the case and let out an amused, but undignified, snort. When Sherlock turned to ask what she found so amusing, all he saw was a pair of twinkling brown eyes dancing above a photograph of himself, aged six, dressed in a large hat adorned with a scarlet plume and holding a wicked looking recreation of a cutlass. The look on his face would have been menacing had it been on the visage of the older version, but on his younger-self, it just looked disgustingly cute.

 

Sherlock knew, logically, that his mother had regaled Molly with all sorts of embarrassing stories complete with photographic proof, but actually handing over such evidence to Molly was completely unacceptable. Molly’s obvious delight just made it worse. Disgruntled, he pulled out the only weapon he had to combat such villainy. Reaching atop his wardrobe, Sherlock retrieved a smaller snapshot. He turned it and mimicked Molly’s pose, gratified when she gasped suddenly.

 

“You nicked that from my flat!” Molly exclaimed, indignant. “That was in my baby book!”

 

Sherlock just grinned broadly above the snapshot of a tiny Molly Hooper wearing a pink bandana around her head, an improvised pirate’s costume and brandishing a musket made of paper tubes and rubber bands. There was a tiny pink eyepatch hanging over her right eye. She, too, had attempted to look fierce and the missing front teeth did add to her attempt to look tough, but apple cheeks and a set of tiny dimples completely ruined the effect.

 

“I propose an exchange of hostages,” Sherlock said seriously. Molly tried to glower back, but those dimples had not disappeared in the 30 years since the photo was taken and she looked as fierce as the baby pirate in the photograph.

 

“On three?” Molly suggested. Sherlock nodded in agreement and slowly approached. When he was within striking distance, he snatched the offending photograph from Molly’s hands and held both images out of her reach.

 

“That’s not fair!” She complained as she tried to liberate the photos. Sherlock used his free arm to grab Molly about the waist and hold her flush to him. Her struggling stilled.

 

“What made you think a pirate is ever fair?” Sherlock said, “We take what we want.”

 

“There’s a double entendre about booty in there somewhere,” Molly breathed

 

“One of us really should make a risque comment about walking planks and such.”

 

They fell silent and stared at each other for a few seconds.

 

“We’re really terrible at flirting, aren’t we?”

 

“Complete rubbish. I don’t expect that to change.”

 

“I don’t know, maybe if we practice?”

 

“I’d much rather practice other things,” Sherlock said and added an eyebrow waggle for effect.

 

Molly beamed at him proudly. “That was a good one!”

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock + Molly = Awkward Flirting. My real OTP.  
> With addition of this chapter, this fic can officially be considered a prequel to Negotiations.


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